


Of God and Gold

by sinchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Oh the cheese, The cheese, Unrequited Sam Winchester/Dean Winchester - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:24:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7852474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinchester/pseuds/sinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam knows that God exists. He's sure of it. </p>
<p>He's sure of it, and Dean is the reason why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of God and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Geny and Evie. It always is, isn't it?

Sam had always known God existed. He had no actual evidence, he had never even talked about it to anyone else... yet somehow, he knew. He could just feel it. Sense it. Could sense that there was something more to the air than must and humidity. Sometimes, he dreamed of golden light in the air. Surrounding him, surrounding everyone, so blinding yet so clear. It was truly golden, glimmering, shining, pure, not the cheap kind that people would paint their nails with that looked too artificial for anyone's good. That was the closest he had ever got to feeling or experiencing God first hand. For some reason, he sensed that that was the true essence of God. And it was just a sense.

 

But he had proof that God gives, if indirectly.

 

He had Dean.

 

When Sam looked around in public, he saw people. Ordinary people. People who had a fucked up story - it was always fucked up - but looked pretty normal. Their faces looked fairly nondescript and average, with maybe one or two distinctive, truly fascinating features. They say that God creates human beings individually, spends time on each one equally. Despite this, Sam thought that the weirdness and the imperfection, the imbalance, the odd fit that was the human face translated to the fact that God probably haphazardly threw people together more than he actually took great care on them.

Dean, however, he spent eternities crafting.

 

There was not a single inch of Dean's body that was not perfected. Sam was 16, all lanky and awkward and a person who hadn't quite grown into their own bones yet. Irritating shaggy hair, a sore lip from anxious biting, bruised knees, bruised arms, bruised everything. Dean, in contrast, was more than perfect. Heavenly, even.

 

Dean, from head to toe, fit together so perfectly that Sam was in awe of the mere chance of his existence. Dean was 20, and he was tall. Tall, but not so tall that it obstructed him in any way. He had these idyllic eyes. They seemed a different shade of green every time he looked in them; ever shifting and complex. He had a perfectly shaped and rounded nose, not too big for his face, but not too small, Sam had always observed. Just right. Yeah. Just right. 

His lips. God, his lips. They were round and warm and plush and pink and so pure yet so sinful and every time his tongue ran over them Sam wanted to do very ungodly things to Dean. No, he wanted Dean to do very ungodly things to him.

His jawline was set and sharp enough to cut metal with. His cheekbones were set high and prominent, like the physical embodiment of how Dean's existence played out for his little brother. He had these beautiful freckles that scattered his face like purposed marks, forming a tally of every beautiful thing about him. If so, he didn't have nearly enough, Sam thought absent-mindedly.

Dean's shoulders were broad and sturdy, giving way to a built up torso that was firm yet somehow the softest to the touch. His arms, strong and capable and his chest, heaving and muscled, and his stomach. His gorgeous, soft tummy that Sam had been certain was the most vulnerable part of Dean's body. 

 

His back. Shit, his back. It was toned and smooth and upright. Their dad barked at them whenever they slouched. Sam never listened, and it showed. Dean, however, was as usual, the textbook case. Such a beautiful back. It was almost secret, how beautiful it was, because Dean could never see it, and for that reason, it just remained. Not pinched, prodded, fiddled with, hated. Just remained. There was beauty in that beyond the beauty in the body part itself.

Dean's legs were steady. Bent, but they were bent in such a way that merely made them appear all the more strong. They always carried him, never faltered, whatever happened to Dean. Always had. Others would give way to the ground, the ever-inviting cavern of lying down and never returning to the world of the brave, of the standing. Dean, however, would be on his feet even in death.

 

There was not a single part of Dean's body that Sam even doubted to be perfectly put together. He was just gorgeous in such a pure, natural, irrevocable way.

 

Not only that, but Dean had gold all over him.

The sun shone on his freckles in the summer and turned them from a sort of brown to, clear as day, an almost shimmering gold. There were flecks of all sorts of colours in his eyes, all shades of green, tiny pigments of many complexions; but the most prominent one other than green was, of course, gold. The soft and tender hairs on Dean's legs, especially his thighs (near the most sacred place of Dean's body that Sam could only hope to worship someday), were golden.

 

God was gold. Dean was gold.

 

Dean was, Sam knew with no doubt about it, the proof that there was a divine deity. 

 

Dean was the powerful, the vulnerable, the pure, the filthy, the deep...Dean, himself, was the divine.

 

And only God could have created that, Sam thought.

Couldn't he?


End file.
